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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318877">Hot Chocolate.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AToZRainToBe/pseuds/AToZRainToBe'>AToZRainToBe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Not Beta Read, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Surprise it's me venting through Wilbur, Therapy, Wilbur goes to therapy, i guess, sleepy bois inc - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:33:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,539</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AToZRainToBe/pseuds/AToZRainToBe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He sips it again. He decides he doesn’t like it very much, but the smell comforts him, the heat settling in his bones. His fingers are on fire. “Even if, y’know, I’m lacking in terms of… everything,” Wilbur swallows. “Techno gets perfect grades. In everything. I didn’t even know that was possible until I met him- and he’s like, the definition of a good kid. Clean room, perfect grades, great life.”</p><p>“And when he breaks down, he has a reason,” Wilbur continues. “There’s always a reason. When Techno is upset, Phil’s there, and they talk it out. They get through- We get through it.”</p><p>“That must be difficult to watch,” Nikki contributes. “Do you feel overshadowed by him?”</p><p>Wilbur swallows down the lump in his throat. “Why would I?”</p><p>Or; I really just wanted to write about Therapy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave | Technoblade &amp; Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; Phil Watson, Dave | Technoblade &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>652</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Toast clock.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>TW: Emotions, feeling inferior/self-deprecation. </p><p>Please remember you are loved and you matter- I'm here for you if you need to talk &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The clock on the wall ticks as gently as his breathing. He presses his fingers together, wondering what Phil will do when he gets home, later than usual. He wonders if it matters, wonders if he should tell his father where he’s been. Maybe the man can tell. Maybe he’s already mentioned it. He feels too empty to tell, sitting in the timeless space of the waiting room, hands pressed together on his lap and his bag discarded beside him. </p><p>“Wilbur Soot?” An old woman calls from the doorway, smiling brightly as she places her glasses on her face. Wild, grey hair is tucked behind her ears and splaying out just before reaching her shoulders, messy even if it looks well-kept. </p><p>Wilbur stands, feet carrying him to the doorway and following her in before the dread has the chance to settle in his stomach. This is stupid, his issues aren’t half as important as anyone else’s. If it were Tommy or Techno, Wilbur would think this is a great step for them, but it’s just him and his stupid finger-pressing habit on a blue couch in a room with a toast clock. </p><p>She takes a seat on a blue recliner, leaving a glass table between them. “Like it?” She gestures to the clock- must’ve noticed him staring. “It always starts a conversation, came along with the office and I just haven’t bothered to take it down.”</p><p>He nods back at her. “It’s nice. Adds character.”</p><p>The smile she gives makes Wilbur relax a little into the couch, fumbling for words to get to the issue. She isn’t asking the question he expects her to, the ‘so, what brings you here?’ of the conversation, giving him a way to talk about it. So he resigns himself to trying to breathe, adjusting the beanie around his ears. </p><p>“Well, my name is Nikki,” She says. “It’s nice to meet you, Wilbur. I’ve been working as a therapist for a little over ten or so years. Everything you tell me in these sessions are completely confidential, the only time I’ll talk to your guardians is if I think you’re in danger or you ask me to. Would you like me to talk to your parents or parents about these?” </p><p>A beat. Should he introduce himself too?</p><p>“Uh, Hi,” He says, shifting. “I’m- I’d like it if you… if this was just between us. So, uh. Yeah. And you probably know who I am. Wilbur Soot.”</p><p>He went with his original last name, before he met Phil. Before he was part of a family- just in case Phil was disappointed with him for this. He feels stupid sitting there with cold hands and blank eyes, in the silence. Nikki watches him with a close eye, grabbing a lined sheet of paper and labelling it with the date and his name at the top. </p><p>God. It feels like an exam. </p><p>“Do you want coffee? Tea?”  </p><p>It startles him back to the office, as he nods- “Uh, Tea, please.”</p><p>She shifts to the shelves next to him, turning on a kettle he hadn’t realised sat beside the couch. “Oh, I also have Hot Chocolate if you’d like,” She says, shuffling around. </p><p>Without a second thought; “I’d like Hot Chocolate- if it’s not too much of a bother.”</p><p>The office feels separate from the waiting room in a completely different way. There are curtains covering one wall, the glass coffee table between them holding nothing on its surface but her pad of paper. In the corner, a black box with locked drawers. Wilbur focuses on it, trying to read the cards and notes stuck to the side of it- most of them are covered by her wooden desk, but he catches glimpses of her business card. There’s a stack sat on top in a plastic holder, just in front of a potted plant that seems to be faring well despite the lack of natural light. </p><p>He takes the Hot Chocolate from her. </p><p>In an effort to start conversation; “Do you like Hot Chocolate, Wilbur?”</p><p>“Just- Uh, call me Will,” He clears his throat, fingers numb despite the burning heat of the cup. “Yeah, I guess I do. My brother makes it when we can’t sleep.”</p><p>“Your brother?” Nikki writes that down. </p><p>“Yeah, Yeah- Techno,” He says, before he thinks about the name. He winces. So much for keeping some mysterious privacy. “He, uh, He’s great. I love him, just like I love Tommy- my younger brother-” Shit, another slip up. “-they’re both great. I love them. They’re my family.”</p><p>Nikki scribbles something else down. Probably something about Tommy. Shit. </p><p>As if he’s attempting to save himself, he continues; “They’re really good. I love them, even if they’re little bitches sometimes, we get along most of the time. And, and I’m loved, which is good- It’s not something I had before I met Phil.”</p><p>“Before?” </p><p>“I was adopted,” Wilbur spills. “I’m lucky I was. Phil was very kind to- to want me.” A raised Eyebrow. Wilbur sips his hot chocolate and feels his grip on his mask slipping; “I’m not the easiest child. I mean, I wasn’t- and, and I… I mean, I wasn’t wanted much by the other family.”</p><p>“There was only one or two before Phil, which is lucky cause Tommy went through, like, thousands,” The hot chocolate tastes like sugar. Nothing like Techno’s subtle balance, an art he’s learnt to perfect through their times spent in the kitchen at god knows what hours. “So I’m better off.”</p><p>“Maybe, but separation can hurt,” Nikki hums. “Do you feel like you belong?”</p><p>“Of course I do,” Wilbur argues. “I’m part of the family. I live in the same house as them, they call me in for family movie nights. There’s no reason I don’t belong in their books.”</p><p>He sips it again. He decides he doesn’t like it very much, but the smell comforts him, the heat settling in his bones. His fingers are on fire. “Even if, y’know, I’m lacking in terms of… everything,” Wilbur swallows. “Techno gets perfect grades. In everything. I didn’t even know that was possible until I met him- and he’s like, the definition of a good kid. Clean room, perfect grades, great life.”</p><p>“And when he breaks down, he has a reason,” Wilbur continues. “There’s always a reason. When Techno is upset, Phil’s there, and they talk it out. They get through- We get through it.”</p><p>“That must be difficult to watch,” Nikki contributes. “Do you feel overshadowed by him?”</p><p>Wilbur swallows down the lump in his throat. “Why would I?”</p><p>“You called him the definition of a good kid,” She places her pen down on the paper. “Do you feel like you live up to expectations?”</p><p>He has no clue what to do with the welling tears in his eyes or the shakiness in his bones. “That would be stupid,” Wilbur says, sipping the hot chocolate. “Phil loves us all equally.”</p><p>Nikki gives him a curious eye. “Do you feel like you live up to expectations?”</p><p>Shakily, he lets the air leave his lungs. “Not really.”</p><p>Quiet. </p><p>The Hot chocolate is beginning to finish. Some part of him is relieved. He stares at the Toast clock, with its seemingly buttered face. “I don’t have good grades in anything but Geology,” He says. “Geology and sometimes History, depending on my mood. Depending on the teacher. I’m alright at Drama, I like it but there’s hardly any structure to our lessons since the old teacher quit. It’s all fake wars and jokes.”</p><p>“Sometimes it feels like that’s the only place I’m actually important, when we’re pretending to lead a war against our friends for freedom,” There’s tears, and he realises it’s from him. “I… I just don’t know. Tommy’s loud and funny, people like him, so even if he doesn’t do well in school he’s got networking skills to rival any good businessman. He could annoy his way to the top if he wanted.”</p><p>Nikki hands him a tissue box. He peels one hand off the cup to take a tissue, wiping at his own tears. “I just,” He hiccups. “I’m not that good at talking to people. I’m not good at learning. I’m… not good.”</p><p>Nikki stands. “Will, I can assure you this isn’t a stupid issue,” She must be mind-reading, Wilbur tells himself as he closes his mouth. “This is pretty common in middle children. Have you heard of the Poisoned Parrot?”</p><p>Wilbur shakes his head; “No?”</p><p>She pulls open a drawer from the black box, skimming through files before settling on one, pulling a black-and-white sheet of paper from it. “Read this,” She hands him the sheet as she begins to close the drawer. It’s a basic text, something Wilbur might read in school. The words aren’t difficult.</p><p>It’s a scenario; A parrot, corrupted to only tell you unhelpful things. Things that get you down. Wilbur isn’t exactly sure what it has to do with him, so he stares at the sheet until Nikki sits down, and then stares some more. Yes, he’s known to chastise himself for doing things wrong, but a stupid analogy of a parrot isn’t going to change that. </p><p>Nikki waits patiently for him to talk, then; “Do you understand it?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “I get it, just. How- how does this help me?”</p><p>Shuffling. Her pen and paper are picked up again. “Those thoughts you have, the ones that tell you that your brothers are better than you- that’s the parrot,” She says. “It’s talking shit about you again. Don’t worry, it does the same for me. When it says those things, it’s important for you to throw a towel over the cage.”</p><p>“That can be things like reminding yourself you are loved, or simply telling it to shut up,” She gives him a smile. “You can keep that, if you’d like.”</p><p>Despite himself, Wilbur nods. “Yeah, that… thanks.”</p><p>Quiet. Again. </p><p>“Is that helpful?”</p><p>“Well, yeah, but… not really,” Wilbur says. “I’m. I’m right. I’m too emotional to be good at things like them. Most days all I do is fuck around and sleep.”</p><p>“That’s the parrot, again,” Nikki responds. “You’re a very deep thinker, Will. That’s great for creative projects.”</p><p>Wilbur blinks. “I’m not- I can’t write. Techno does that.”</p><p>“You don’t need to write to be creative. You can do other things, like art or music. Are you interested in either of those?”</p><p>“I can play guitar,” Wilbur offers up, a feeble attempt to impress. Then, because he feels ashamed; “Not very well, though.”</p><p>“You could try writing songs,” Nikki says. “Give yourself a space to talk about how you feel without putting yourself down. Write down what you think, and when the song ends, you let the feeling go with it.”</p><p>“That…” Wilbur swallows down the last of his hot chocolate. “That sounds nice.”</p><p>Nikki smiles at him. “Good, and if you ever want to bring the guitar and play some, I’m sure it would sound wonderful,” She says. “Perhaps showing this to those close to you can help to ease some of the feelings you have towards being less than them. I’m sure they’ll be impressed by your music.”</p><p>“I do like music,” Wilbur half-heartedly contributes, the cup no longer burning his hands. “I’ll, I’ll try that. Writing songs.”</p><p>The room is lukewarm, like the cup in his hands. It hurts that he’s still desperate to feel the burning through him, instead of the deep-rooted tiredness in his bones. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and then blows his nose with a tissue. “I just,” He swallows around the lump. “I’m. Everything feels so overwhelming, like my head’s a mess. Even if I get past the fact they’re better than me, I still feel sad.”</p><p>“Everything feels too much,” He pauses, trying to stop himself from crying again. “I can’t stop it, either. I feel empty and alone, and sad, and-”</p><p>Niki hands him a tissue.</p><p>“It’s- It’s like…” He struggles for words as he dabs his eyes. “A storm. It’s like a storm. In my head. It’s always a storm, and I’m in the eye of it, struggling to find my way out.” </p><p>“And that’s very valid,” She scribbles something down. “Sometimes life is very busy. Sometimes our emotions overwhelm us. It’s important to engage our Wise Mind in moments like these. The Wise Mind is a mindspace between our emotions and our logic, that lets us make decisions without being overpowered by either side.”</p><p>“When you begin to feel overwhelmed, Wilbur,” She goes to the draw, pulling another sheet of paper and handing him it. It’s an excerpt from a website. “Try mindfulness. Focus on your breathing, anchoring yourself like a ship in a storm. Allow yourself to appreciate the moment for what it is, with or without flaws. Then, when you feel ready, let yourself return to the situation and engage your wise mind to solve the problems that make you feel like this.” </p><p>His body shivers with another breath, far too cold. “Would you like to try mindfulness now, Wilbur?” </p><p>It’s a soft question. Despite the fact Wilbur feels far from his body, as if there’s a wall between him and his movements, he pushes himself to nod. Nikki smiles back at him. “Alright,” She settles herself on the chair. “Breathe with me, and close your eyes if you need to. Take a deep breath in,” </p><p>The air is warm, and for the first time, he doesn’t wish it were warmer. </p><p>“Hold it,” He lets it settle in his lungs, feeling the tension of it rise in his shoulders and chest. “And breathe out.” All that tension pours from him in a steady breath, like the passing of a wave. </p><p>He follows when she instructs him to do the same, breathing in and out like a wave on the beach. Like the breeze that passes by his bedroom, like the leaves that rustle outside their kitchen window. After the fifth time, the wall between him and his fingers settles into nothing. He breathes again, not as slow, and it feels like the first clear breath he’s taken in ages. </p><p>A smile graces his lips. </p><p>They finish up soon after, Wilbur clutching the two sheets of black-and-white paper as he leaves the waiting room with his bag on his back. He doesn’t hesitate to notice the hallway carpet’s pattern, or the passing of cars as he walks on the sidewalk. He kicks a pebble and smiles when it rolls away from him.</p><p>When he gets home, Nikki texts him; ‘Hello, this is Nikki. Is this Wilbur Soot?’</p><p>‘Yep.’ He types back, leaving his bag in his room as he lays on the bed. </p><p>‘Oh good. Would you like me to book you in for another session? Sorry for not asking in person, the old brain of mine forgot.’ </p><p>‘Yeah, if you have any free sessions in the next two weeks I’d love to take one. And It’s Wilbur Watson, not Soot, that’s my old last name, sorry.’</p><p>‘No problem! Does Wednesday at 3:30 sound good?’</p><p>Tommy kicks his door open. “Will, Come on,” he says, as if Wilbur is supposed to know where they’re apparently going together. “Techno just said we couldn’t beat him in a water fight. We have an hour before Phil gets home to prove him wrong, big man.”</p><p>Laughing, Will stands, flicking a quick ‘Sure, see you then :)’ to Nikki. </p><p>That Parrot pipes up again. Wilbur shuts it up with a water fight that ends in three drenched brothers laughing their asses off. When they get dry, Techno makes them Hot Chocolate and they come to the agreement that if they did have another water fight, Tommy wouldn’t have the hose all to himself (Tommy objects, but he’s overruled by the two ganging up on him, so he sits there fuming with his hot chocolate in his lap, hair dripping cold water onto his nose). </p><p>Wilbur sips his own Hot Chocolate, letting himself relax into the couch and the blanket he shared with the other two. It’s a perfect balance of sweetness. Wilbur decides it’s his favourite part of today.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. It’s a balance.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>People asked for a follow up ? So i wrote one, or. I did to the best of my abilities</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Against his own will, Tommy is the first person he speaks to. </p><p>It’s not that he sits the boy down and talks about it, Tommy just seems to notice something is off and ends up cornering him after school one day. Well, not cornering, they get into the car together-Phil’s busy- but it feels like cornering the minute Tommy pipes up; “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing?” Eyes on the road. </p><p>“Will. What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing, Tommy.”</p><p>“C’mon, Will, What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Tommy. Nothing.”</p><p>“Willll,” His brother whines. “What’s wroooong?”</p><p>“Tommy, drop it.” His grip tightens on the wheel, skin bristling. Tommy might care now, but the minute he tells the boy what’s actually wrong, things will go downhill. Tommy won’t ever look at him the same way. </p><p>“Wilbur. I’m not going to do that,” Tommy smirks. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s-“</p><p>“Look, Toms, It doesn’t matter,” He says, pulling over. “It’s nothing big. So don’t push it, yeah?”</p><p>“Wilbur,” Tommy pulls his knees to his chest, a position he often assumes when settling in for a talk, and now Wilbur knows there’s no dancing around it. When did he decide to let this stubborn Brat into their family? “I’m going to keep asking you until you tell me, big man.”</p><p>“It’s…” He sighs. Dammit. He breathes around the lump in his throat, trying his best to remember the instructions for mindfulness as he listens to the cars go past and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. It’s a tune he’s been thinking of since he left the office yesterday. “It’s just, I don’t want… I don’t want you getting upset, or worrying too much, okay? You’re a kid. My mental state shouldn’t be your responsibility.”</p><p>“First off, I’m not a kid, I’m a big man,” Tommy points out. “Secondly, I’m not asking how I can fix it, I’m asking you to talk about it. There’s a difference between putting all your problems on someone else and talking about your problems when you want to.”</p><p>Fuck. He has a good point. </p><p>Still, Wilbur feels guilty. “I... Just between us?”</p><p>Tommy nods. “Yeah, big man, I don’t plan on telling Big T or some shit unless you really need the help. Just big man to big man.”</p><p>He steadies himself, still tapping on the wheel, until his breathing returns to him. “Okay. Okay.” </p><p>This is going to be so, so embarrassing. </p><p>“Toms, you know I think you’re a good kid,” He says. “And- and I’m not taking that back! I’m not saying you’re too good or that I want you to give up being who you are just- just because I don’t feel comfortable with myself. The issue here is… well, it’s on me, I guess. It’s all feelings.”</p><p>Like a weight has been lifted, Wilbur slowly feels the knot in his stomach uncurl and the lump in his throat settle. He continues, trying to reach the words to communicate how he feels; “I feel… Sometimes, sometimes I feel like I’m not destined for much. You’re good at annoying people until they love you, and your networking is even better. Techno’s a straight-A student with english skills I’ve never seen before and strength that scares me out of my mind,”</p><p>“And I’m… not. I hardly think that I deserve average in subjects other than History and Geography,” Wilbur stops tapping. Tommy’s eyes are on his face, like a hawk, but Wilbur only focuses on the cars rushing past them. “It’s just a matter of feeling like, hey, I don’t belong here. I’m not the favourite. I’m hardly even loved-”</p><p>“Which is wrong.”</p><p>“Maybe it is, but I don’t feel loved, not all the time,” Wilbur argues. “And it’s… it’s just painful.”</p><p>“Wilbur, I love you,” Tommy’s voice is quiet. Wilbur would’ve missed the words if he hadn’t been focused on his little brother’s response to an outburst he hadn’t mean to have. He stops breathing for that moment, wishing he could drown in his yellow sweater.</p><p>“I love you too, Toms,” He says, after a beat too long. “It’s not that I don’t know you love me.”</p><p>“Can…” Tommy clears his throat. “And don’t get me wrong, this isn’t me trying to make everything magically better for you, but is there anything I can do to help?”</p><p>There’s so much he wants to say in response to that, and yet not enough at the same time. He doesn’t have an answer, he realises, turning away from his brother to focus on a patch of interesting cement outside his window. “I’m not sure,” Wilbur says. “I… I genuinely don’t know. I just.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just need to remind myself it’s in my head, you know?” </p><p>“I know,” Tommy gives him a smile. “You can come hang out with me? In my room or some shit. And we can team up on Techno together or something.” </p><p>He huffs out some air. “I don’t want you to have to deal with my shit, Tommy,” He says. </p><p>“I’m not!” An uneasy laugh, eyes turning to focus on the same road ahead of them. “But if you feel lonely, then it might help to be with someone? I might annoy the shit out of you, though.”</p><p>“You’re pretty good at that.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah…” Tommy frowns. “Wilbur, you are loved. You know that, yeah?”</p><p>“I know,” Wilbur rolls his sleeve into a ball, clenching it and watching as it releases slowly. “I know.”</p><p>Satisfied, Tommy uncurls his legs. Wilbur sits there for a minute longer, head against the seat, a tension in his chest. “I love you too, Tommy,” He says, soft and quiet. “Honestly.”</p><p>“Of course you do, I’m fucking great,” Tommy quips. “Let’s get home now, I’m also fucking starving and Tubbo’s gonna get all clingy if I don’t call him like I promised.”</p><p>With a smile, Wilbur starts the car. </p><p>When Wilbur ends up in Tommy’s room that night with a guitar and a soft voice, neither of them mention it to anyone else. And if Wilbur’s chest feels lighter, life a little less salty, he doesn’t say a word. </p><p>-</p><p>Techno comes next, because Wilbur is terrified out of his mind at the possibility of talking to his adopted father. This time, it’s almost purposeful, an off-night he spends in the kitchen humming words out to a song rattling around his mind. </p><p>Sometime between midnight and one, Techno joins him, shuffling in with a blanket draped over his shoulders. He looks almost kingly, bathed in the moonlight with disheveled hair and tired eyes. </p><p>Neither of them greet each other. Techno goes straight to the cupboard, gathering the hot chocolate and milk to pour into a pot that sits, ready, on the stove. He doesn’t ask if Wilbur wants one; Wilbur’s never said no. </p><p>“Tech,” He says, desperate to quiet the business of his mind with a conversation. Something about the night makes his thoughts run like wild dogs in the woods. “Why’re you up?” </p><p>He shrugs. Then; “Can’t sleep?”</p><p>Wilbur takes it for what it is; a tired response to a question neither of them can actually answer. He leans back against the wall, sitting on the bench, taping his fingers in his thigh as he thinks. The shadows crawl along the walls, twisting as if they might reach towards him, but he finds that he doesn’t mind the movement so much. </p><p>If they grabbed him, he probably wouldn’t fight it. He’s got nothing but school in the morning, and he can hardly manage getting up on time for that (if he weren’t taking Tommy to school as well, he’d be missing far more than just a couple of sick days, he thinks). The most he might do is cry. </p><p>Speaking of crying- he can feel tears well in his eyes, fingertips numb. Techno shoots him a curious glance, but makes no move to question it. To question him. </p><p>Sometimes it’s frustrating. Right now, it’s a relief.</p><p>He’s shaking despite his warm clothes and steady breathing. He can’t stop shaking. There’s a heavy load on his chest and numbness in his bones that weighs him to the spot, vibrating like his phone in the morning. </p><p>“Wilbur.” Techno hands him a cup of Hot Chocolate. </p><p>The warmth seeps into his bones, and Wilbur does his best to breathe through each tremor in his body until he’s still again. Each breath he takes tastes like salt to his wounds, the world seeming nothing but bland moonlight and heat. </p><p>Techno sets himself against the bench opposite Wilbur, blowing on his Hot Chocolate. “Techno, I…” He blows on the liquid. “Am I… Do you think I’m good?”</p><p>“Good?” </p><p>It’s easier when it’s Techno. Techno’s around his age, only a year or so older, which lessens Wilbur’s guilt just slightly. “Yeah, do you think I’m… I’m enough? That I matter?”</p><p>“Course I do,” Techno places his drink beside him. “Will, is somethin’ the matter?”</p><p>Another breath, shakier than the last. “I just don’t feel like I’m enough,” He says. The lump in his throat pulls tight, and he rapidly blinks back tears, doing his best to focus on the steam in his face. “I’m not a very good person.”</p><p>“No one is.”</p><p>“I mean- I mean I’m worse than everyone else,” He elaborates. “That… that I’m not enough for any of this. For anyone. Even if they love me, or care, or whatever. It’s just…”</p><p>“It’s just one of those nights.”</p><p>Techno nods. A minute of silence stretches itself out, and then; “Will, it ain’t much but I think you’re enough. You’re pretty good at keepin’ things together when Tommy and I start yellin’, and that’s somethin’ not many can do.” </p><p>“That’s not going to get me far,”  Wilbur half-laughs</p><p>With an evaluating eye, Techno picks his cup up again and sips it; “Y’know, it’s a balance,” He says. “You gotta find a place between likin’ yourself and not likin’ yourself. So you’re not too prideful, but you’re not too self-deprecatin’.”</p><p>Sweetness tingles on his tongue as Wilbur sips his own drink. He stays silent, twisting Techno’s words over and over again in his mind. “That’s pretty wise.”</p><p>In the quiet of the early morning, Techno and Wilbur finish their drinks and leave the cups in the sink. As his hand sits on the cold metal of his room’s door handle, Techno says; “I love you, Will.”</p><p>“I love you too.” </p><p>He lays awake in bed again. It’s a balance. The thoughts he had are forgotten, laid on his bedside in a note he’ll never open again, when morning wakes him from his gentle sleep. </p><p>-</p><p>Phil walks in when he’s in the middle of strumming his guitar and writing down whatever lyrics come to mind. He pauses the recording on his phone, placing the guitar down, watching as Phil hands him sliced apples and cheese on a plate. </p><p>“I have meetings until about 5,” Phil says. “I thought I’d come check in.”</p><p>On Tuesday nights, Tommy and Tubbo hang out. Techno often disappears to go do whatever he decides to do when he’s out of the house, which results in Wilbur and Phil sharing most of the afternoon together. </p><p>Unless Phil has meetings. </p><p>Wilbur ignores how excited he had been, instead focusing on his father; “Thanks,” He says, taking the offered snack with a forced smile. “Hope your meetings go well.”</p><p>Phil smiles back at him, and closes the door when he leaves. Wilbur stares at the space where the door meets the frame, something between loneliness and disappointment settling onto his shoulders like a weighted blanket. </p><p>It’s fine. He’s fine. </p><p>-</p><p>It’s unintentional. He knows it is. But it’s just been one of those crappy days where Wilbur can’t get anything right, and the results from his math exam doesn’t help anything but the hatred in his bones. He avoids the bathroom mirrors with a skill he’s mastered down to the last movement, surviving by seeing glimpses of his messy reflection dimly in windows. </p><p>His friends joke. They laugh about their results. </p><p>Wilbur sits there and wonders if Phil will be upset. He sits there and wonders if he’s going to keep doing nothing but the bare minimum. He considers how far he can go until he reaches maximum disappointment; joking about it half-heartedly and ignoring the worried looks from peers. </p><p>It doesn’t matter. It’s just math. </p><p>He finds relief in the idea of getting a ride home with Phil and Tommy. He gets into the car and he feels a little better, with Tommy in the front (annoyingly, but they have a roster that Wilbur can’t argue with) and Phil in the driver’s seat- he thinks for a moment about sharing his results with the two. </p><p>So here he is, bag on his lap, tuned back into the conversation as Phil asks; “So, how were your days?” </p><p>“I got excellence on my Essay for history!” Tommy exclaims. He’s proud of the kid, of course he is. </p><p>Still, he drops all thoughts of showing Phil the test. It’s fine. He smiles through it. It’s fine. When it comes time for him to speak, he plasters on the best mask he can and responds with the happiest answer he can think of without letting on to his state. </p><p>It’s fine. He cries quietly in bed that night, begging for a reason why he’s not good enough. </p><p>-</p><p>It’s all hell. Wilbur loses track of how long it’s been. He cancels his appointment on the very day it’s meant to happen, that morning, after contemplation about the pros and cons. </p><p>The bed is very tempting. So is passing out for another three hours and forgetting entirely about school and all that other bullshit. If he’s struggling to be enough right now, imagine how much worse it will be when he disappoints everyone. </p><p>Still, he drags himself out to drive Tommy to school. In silence. Because Tommy was up late on call with Tubbo, doing some schoolwork Wilbur didn’t think he’d actually see his little brother commit too. </p><p>It made him feel even worse when he blinked at a page of Science for an hour and understood none of it, still able to overhear the two young boys doing their project with exceptional ease. </p><p>Once Tommy’s gone, he parks himself on the side of the road and sobs until his breath leaves him. He looks pathetic the whole time. </p><p>With short, abrupt breaths, he pulls his head as close to his lap as he can, feeling his back sting at the extension. He pushes his palms into his eyes as he heaves in and out, desperate as the lump in his throat grows to be painful. </p><p>Thick, salty tears pour from his eyes and mix with the scratch lines in his throat. Everything about it hurts- the nails digging into his skin, the feeling of the air around him and the lack of it in his lungs, the tears that mix with his breathy, whispered words.</p><p>“Please,” He begs to no one in particular, barely loud enough for him to hear, as if admitting it louder than the hum of a big might shatter everything his desperate soul beyond repair. “Please, just- I- I hate it so much, please, I just want to be good, I just want to be normal, I, I-“</p><p>The only answers he gets is the gentle vibration of his phone reminding him he has a class in half an hour. </p><p>He can’t stop himself from shaking as he dries his eyes, sniffing, and checks his god-awful reflection in the mirror. </p><p>There’s no sign that he cried. His cheeks aren’t puffy, his nose isn’t runny. He looks, by all accounts, like he just woke up. The only signs that he could possibly be caught by are the dampness around his eyes and the sniffing. Both of which clear before he sets foot in school.</p><p>It’s fine, he tells himself. Everything’s fine. </p><p>-</p><p>In all truthfulness, he is avoiding talking to Phil about it. He does everything he possibly can to rationalise his need not to talk to the man, until he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel and eventually, knocking at the front door. </p><p>He regrets leaving school early. He regrets that when Phil opens the door, he takes one look at Wilbur before letting him inside, and Wilbur especially regrets that he doesn’t turn around and run from this. He doesn’t have the strength to regret the way he falls into Phil’s arms the minute they’re open, sobbing. </p><p>But he does. </p><p>And Phil rubs his back, quiet words of reassurance whispered between them as Wilbur helplessly grabs at Phil’s shirt, sobbing until he hiccups and then hiccuping until he sobs again. </p><p>They make their way onto a couch, and Wilbur finds himself reminded of a scared, sad boy being held by someone who promised to give him a better life. The likeness is suffocating, Wilbur’s hands gripping onto Phil and soft apologies under his breath. </p><p>God. Atleast he had a reason to cry then, now he’s nothing but ungrateful snd selfish, creating problems for himself where there are none. He’s an idiot, he should turn and run and pretend this never happened so Phil doesn’t have to worry, but then words are tumbling from his mouth and instead of doing anything like the things he thinks he should, he says; “I’m sorry.” </p><p>It becomes a mantra on his lips. Wilbur only stops to hiccup as Phil rubs circles into his back. “I’m- I’m sorry, Phil I’m so-“</p><p>“Will, shh, it’s okay.”</p><p>“It’s not, though!” A song sparks through him as another sob rattles through his body. “I’m- I don’t- I don’t get it, I don’t- I-“</p><p>“Everything is perfect, and I should be happy,” He says. “I’m- im ungrateful, and selfish, and- and-“</p><p>Pounding begins in his head, louder than the voices that drown Wilbur in an ocean of thoughts he can’t find the words to communicate. “And god damn it, Phil, I was better, and I got better, and I thought- I-“</p><p>Tighter hands around him. “Will, what’s wrong, hm? Start from the beginning, and we can work it out together.”</p><p>“Do you…” He isn’t aware he was even thinking of it until he hears himself ask; “Do you like Techno and Tommy more?”</p><p>A pause in the motions on his back. So he was right.</p><p>“What makes you say that?”</p><p>He’s quiet. There’s no need to explain, they both know the truth now. “Will, what makes you say that?” Phil asks again, and dammit, Will just wants to enjoy this hug as if he were as loved as the other two, so he remains quiet and desperately hopes Phil gives him this win because he’s not sure what he’ll do if he loses. “I swear to god, Will, whatever or whoever gave you that idea is going to face all hell.”</p><p>What?</p><p>“I- I can’t- I can’t even believe that this is coming up,” Phil continues. “I love you so much, dude, you’re my son! Why wouldn’t I love you just as much?”</p><p>“Because I’m not good enough,” Wilbur croaks out, disgusted at how weak he sounds. </p><p>“Because- Will, that’s the single most bullshit thing I’ve heard,” Phil’s hands are on his back again, rubbing circles as he talks, and Wilbur turns his head so it’s in the crook of Phil’s neck. What? He’s shaking now, sobbing again and desperately clutching to Phil. “If you want an answer, No. No, I don’t like Techno or Tommy more. You’re all my sons, okay?”</p><p>He nods, holding his breath. “I- I’m sorry-”</p><p>“Why are you sorry?”</p><p>“I’m - i’m such a- such a fucking problem, I’m sorry,” Will’s mouth runs ahead of his mind, spurting thoughts a mile a minute. “I don’t- I don’t want to lose you, or this, and I keep fucking things up, I keep- I’m sorry, Phil. I’m so sorry I can’t- I’m not as good as either- I’m not enough, I’m not fucking enough, and I’m so, so sorry, I-”</p><p>Phil shushes him with gentle rhythms and pressure against his back. “Will, shh, hey, listen to me, okay?” </p><p>He tries to quiet his breathing and the noise in his mind as he focuses on Phil. “Breathe with me, I want you to calm down for this, okay?” Wilbur does his best to obey, letting Phil guide him to breathe in and out, slowly, like the tide. His first few are broken and shaky, eventually evening out as exhaustion settles to his bones for good. He pulls away to wipe his eyes, and Phil grabs his hands the minute they’re free, settling them between the two. </p><p>“Will,” He says, all serious and concerned. It makes Will feel sick, but a pang of something unfamiliar runs through him as Phil maintains eye contact. “Will. I love you so much. You’re my son, okay? We’re family. I don’t care if you don’t always do the best academically, you gave it a shot, and that’s all I need to know, okay? You’re so good at the things you do with passion, you don’t need to score above and beyond on a math’s test or an essay for me to be proud of you.”</p><p>“I’m just proud of you for being you. Okay?”</p><p>Will stays silent, focused on the warmth of their interlocked hands and the way Phil seems so, genuinely, concerned. The world spins as he takes another breath, doing his best to breathe, but every inch of his body feels wracked with exhaustion and heavy like lead. Even a simple action like blinking drains everything from him. </p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>He can’t find it in him to speak. Phil doesn’t seem upset by it, taking his nod with nothing but a smile. Wilbur leans himself against Phil’s chest and his dad begins to weave his fingers through Wilbur’s messy locks, silence enveloping the two like a blanket. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says without thinking. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. This is a really stupid thing to be upset about.”</p><p>“It’s not,” Phil responds instantly, shifting so the two are still wrapped together, this time more comfortably. He settles a nearby blanket over them. “It’s been clear that you haven’t been happy, lately, Will. I’m sorry I didn’t try and help sooner, but I’m glad you came to me now.”</p><p>“I promise you, I love you all the same,” Phil’s chest hums when he talks, a soothing vibration for Wilbur to feel. “But it’s clear we’ve both been feeling a little lonely when it comes to spending time with each other. So I’ll try to spend more time with you, and I’ll let you know I’m proud of you until you believe me.”</p><p>“It’s alright, Will.” Wilbur feels himself shiver, trying to stop himself from crying again. “It’s alright. I love you, Will. I won’t stop loving you, okay? And when you feel lonely, or upset, I’m here. I’m glad you came to me.”</p><p>“Phil?” His voice is weak, a replica of how he feels. </p><p>“Mmm?”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes ! This was just me projecting real conversations I’ve had onto SBI!! Specifically Wilbur !! And projecting my ideal parent into Phil haha oops I guess ? </p><p>Remember to treat your else nicely and if you feel this way, to reach out and talk about it because you’re not alone !! </p><p>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yo so this is loosely based of a session I had a few weeks ago, the resources are here:</p><p>Poisonous Parrot: https://www.getselfhelp.co.uk/esteem.htm<br/>Storm/Mindfulness: https://psychcentral.com/blog/mindfulness-the-anchor-in-the-storm/</p><p>It's not my best but I needed the fluff :&gt;</p><p>Also I know therapy is expensive (Lmao how could I not) but in my mind. Wilbur is probably good with numbers enough to save up or know how to prioritise his earnings, also he probably has a decent part-time job. Idk, this is literally something I whipped up in like. Five minutes?? lmao</p></blockquote></div></div>
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